This is Turbulent Indigo, painted in 1993 by singer-songwriter, Joni Mitchell. It’s also the cover of her album of the same name, modeled after Vincent Van Gogh’s Self Portrait of Bandaged Ear and Pipe, which he painted in 1889, not long before he took his own life.
I can sense the exact number of you who don’t want to read further. In fact, I may have already lost you. I expected this. To some, hearing Joni Mitchell’s music — or even just hearing her name — is akin to summoning a harpy. But, Joni has always presented a kind of litmus test. Either you love her unconditionally and with deep reverence, or she exists in the same category as hairy armpits, braless abandon, and painful emotional over-sharing; things that are unarguably female but which would be better if they were less noticeable. And more fun for guys.
I remember the look on my college boyfriend’s face when I popped a cassette of Court and Spark into my boom box. He winced. But he tried to keep it cool, like, “Yeah, I’ve heard of her.” It was a test, on my part, to see if “Down to You” might make him a) run for the hills, or b) join the believers. Would he hold his hands up, shielding himself from the harpy’s talons? Or would he be unafraid, even open minded? That’s what I, a young woman wearing a pair of my dad’s old jeans — and a very new sense of myself — wanted to know. It was imperative.
Many people, both the pious and the un-pious, know that Joni is a visual artist. But this 12-time Grammy winner sees it in stronger terms: “I am a painter derailed by circumstance.” Although her paintings are rarely shown, one discipline clearly informs the other; she describes her songs as “audio paintings,” and fills her lyrics with rich visual descriptions. Sing any verse of a Joni tune to yourself and you’ll see what I mean. She began painting as a kid, discovering it as an outlet when she was diagnosed with a debilitating case of polio at age 10. Her obsession with color and form has lasted her entire life, and although no one would argue that she’s a ground-breaking painter, it remains an inextricable part of her artistic expression. She describes the dynamic this way: “I sing my sorrow and I paint my joy.”
A lovely sentiment, but as you can see, Turbulent Indigo, is decidedly UNjoyous. It’s bleakly suicidal. Even for Joni.
At the time she painted it, in 1993, she was pissed. She had been shut out of the music industry, passed over for younger recording artists — she said — but what she was really saying is that the music executives wanted someone less harpy-like. Someone more fun for guys.
That year, when Joni was asked a simple question by musician and writer (and eventual partner) Don Freed, “How are you?” Joni’s reply was succinct: “Undervalued.” She wrote a song about it:
You wanna make Van Goghs
Raise 'em up like sheep
Make 'em out of Eskimos
And women if you please
Make 'em nice and normal
Make 'em nice and neat
You see him with his shotgun there?
Bloodied in the wheat?
Oh what do you know about
Living in Turbulent Indigo?
I was inducted into the Church of Joni as an unsuspecting youngster, which is how must inductions take place. My sisters — always sophisticated and wise — played her on 8-track tapes, I sang along. Before long, those lyrics had become a kind of liturgical text; it rang true, it challenged me. I identified with it wholly. But I learned just as early that the particular sect I had joined was unpopular. To be fully enthralled, to listen at full volume, and sing out loud, it was best not to do so in mixed company, among non-believers. AKA men. Men get uncomfortable when they feel intimidated, called out, out-smarted, asked to feel things, corrected, put upon, subservient, impotent, responsible, frightened, or un-masterful in any way. I have been reminded throughout my entire life not to challenge that authority. I still do, of course. Joni’s music — and those of us, underground, who follow her (you know who you are) — gives me the strength to do that. I return to these songs like Martin Luther’s 95 Theses. They are proof to me that what I feel is not the same as what I see. They remind me that there are others out there who feel the same.
At the recent Grammy awards, Joni sat enthroned. Her scepter kept time, and kept her steady. She was flanked by none other than Brandi Carlisle, who has worked miracles on behalf of our order to bring Joni back to the stage at age 80. While I honor her effort, do I believe Joni no longer feels undervalued? No, I believe she’s still searching for the recognition she deserves — on behalf of all of us.
I’m not here to proselytize. I’m not here to convince you to love Joni, or to make you believe that this self portrait is among the great paintings. I married that college boyfriend, and have converted at least one sympathizer. I see that as a win for women everywhere. But I feel our cause is losing steam. There isn’t a single female public figure that I’m inspired by right now. Not one woman whose cause I support. Our fight for reproductive freedom has pulled us dangerously outside of fighting for gender equality — but I suppose that was the plan all along; to distract us from our value, and to use our massive collective energy on an underground war that we cannot win. We may not have value to the powers-that-be, but our bodies do. As long as that’s the case, we’ll continue to be for sale.
So, now that I have you here — the true believers— at this last paragraph, I will end my little sermon with a hope. Or maybe it’s more like a call to arms: the only way to put Joni’s good work into action is to stop waiting. And stop apologizing. And for God’s sake to stop being “nice and normal.” It’s time for us to release the mother fucking harpies.
Thanks for reading, you’re the best. If you’re feeling the Joni spirit, send me some love and hit the little heart up above. Leave an Amen. Or share with a fellow believer. xox
Amen.
I am in the front pew. Crying most likely. An interesting twist though. I was turned on to Joni by a boyfriend. He didn’t last but she and I are forever.